Lyric was oblivious to his discomfort. She and Science Geek had moved on to a spirited discussion about the upcoming (and obviously very exciting) Firefly cast reunion scheduled for the next San Diego Comic-Con.
Science Geek got so enthusiastic that his jacket fell open, revealing a T-shirt that read, “Beam Me Up, Scottie. There’s no intelligent life down here.”
Heath barely resisted commenting that she’d already Jim Beamed him upside the head, but he doubted they’d get it. With all the science speak flying around, however, he was considering Jim Beaming himself—right between the eyes.
Science Geek’s gaze locked on to Lyric’s cleavage. “That dress. Is that the new light-refracting material they were talking about on the SETI website?”
He reached out and ran a fingertip along the top edge of her dress, lingering for a second in the shallow between her breasts.
Heath couldn’t take it anymore. Shooting Science Geek an I’m-going-to-beat-the-shit-out-of-you glare, he yanked the blanket out of Lyric’s cleavage and tucked it under her chin and around her shoulders. It might have been twelve years and she might hate him, but he still thought of her as the little girl who had brought him a Hostess CupCake with a candle on it for his tenth birthday. She’d been the only one to remember that birthday and the ones that came after it. Heath would be damned if some Klingon tried to handle her quasars … not on his watch.
She turned to him, bemused, but must have decided he wanted an introduction, because she suddenly said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce you to my seatmate. This is Heath Montgomery.” Unfortunately, she used her professional lecturer tone and her voice echoed through the dark cavern of the plane.
The second his name dropped from her lips, the seat in front of him rattled like an F5 tornado. Wranglers Jersey’s head popped up, and then it was on. Heath dove for the newspaper, but he wasn’t fast enough on the draw, and the guy’s eyes widened as their gazes connected.
“Holy shit.” His voice echoed down the aisle. “Ho-ly shit. You’re Heath fucking Montgomery. Man, you were great in the Super Bowl last year.”
Before Heath could answer, someone else stuck their head past the curtain that separated first class from coach. “Montgomery. Dude, how’s the knee? That was a brutal hit.”
From there, it was only a few seconds before he had a fan club of five or six men gathered in the aisle around them, all vying for his attention. On the plus side, Science Geek had been trampled in the rush, which meant Lyric’s body was safe. Too bad he couldn’t say the same about his own, but he was familiar with taking one for the team.
Wranglers Jersey yelled to his girlfriend, “Tiffany, get up here. You’ve got to meet the Deuce.” He turned back to Heath. “She’s almost as big a fan as I am. In fact, we met at LSU in the kinesiology building, right in front of the life-size portrait they have of you holding the Heisman. It was fate.”
The next thing Heath knew, a tiny brunette popped over the top of the seat, Sharpie in hand. Before he could so much as say hello, she’d ripped open her shirt and shoved her perfect but obviously fake C cups in his face. They were pretty, but he had to admit, he preferred Lyric’s real double Ds—even encased in duct tape.
“Sign my chest,” she demanded. “Honey, take a picture and I’ll get it inked for your birthday.”
Wranglers Jersey whipped out his cell phone before wiping a tear from his eye. “Baby, I love you.” But then he glanced around and realized all the men in the general vicinity were now staring at his girlfriend’s chest. Reaching over the seat, he grabbed for the blanket Heath had just wrapped around Lyric. “Can I borrow this?”
Heath’s hand shot out, knocked Wranglers Jersey’s hand away. “Dude, show some respect. Don’t touch her.”
Guarding Lyric’s cleavage was turning into a full-time job.
The guy blanched, held up both his hands in a sign of surrender. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to disrespect your girl.”
You would think after ten years as a pro quarterback, he would be used to the crazies, but the truth was, they still threw him for a loop. He heard a snort come from Lyric’s general direction, and worried she was upset. But when he glanced at her, she was laughing her ass off—enjoying the hell out of his discomfort. Just like a woman.
Trapped now—as much by the crush of expectations as by the small crowd that had gathered around him—he gingerly reached for the Sharpie and started to sign right below the woman’s chin.
Lyric stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “No, no, no. You don’t want to sign there. The bones are much too close to the surface and it will hurt when she gets it tattooed. Plus, she might not want it showing at her next job interview.” She repositioned his hand directly over the fullest part of the woman’s breast. “Sign here, where it’s fleshier. But be careful of the aureoles. She might want to breast-feed someday.”
Gritting his teeth, he quickly scrawled his name across her chest, avoiding the nipples as Lyric had suggested. This wasn’t the first rack he’d signed in his career, but it was by far the most uncomfortable. Something about Lyric watching and offering suggestions threw him off his game.
Once he’d given one autograph, it was open season. People handed him napkins, scraps of paper, T-shirts, even a diaper bag. He was on signature number eight when the flight attendant stomped down the aisle and muscled his way through the crowd. Hands on hips and one eyebrow raised, he glared down at Lyric. “What. Did. You. Do?”
* * *
Chapter 4
* * *
“Me?” Lyric pressed her hands against her chest in mock innocence. “I haven’t done anything. It’s Mr. Football over here causing all the commotion—signing boobs and posing for pictures.”
The flight attendant sighed heavily, then, with all the self-importance of a dictator commanding his legions, pulled himself up to his full height of five foot six inches. Turning to Wranglers jersey, he ordered, “Stop touching those. I don’t care if they’re signed by Versace himself.”
“As for you,” he told the girlfriend with a scowl, “you’ve got five seconds to put those away or I’m getting out the duct tape. And this time, it’s not going be pretty.” He pointed at Heath. “And you, keep your Sharpie to yourself.”
As the couple in front of him finally turned around and did what they were told, Heath took a long sip of Lyric’s drink. Then nearly spewed it when the flight attendant held up his hands and said, “People, this is not Playboy One. Hugh Hefner is not on this airplane, and God willing, he never will be. Which means there will be no more nudity on this airplane. Do you understand me? No. More. Nudity.”